ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Christopher Leigh Silverberg is a Black, queer, churchy theater queen poet of film experience, originally from Dallas, Texas and now in Jersey City, New Jersey. He is grateful to his teachers at Columbia University, Cave Canem, Hunter College and the poet Priscilla Becker's home workshop. His work appears or is forthcoming in ANMLY, Callaloo, Memezine and elsewhere. He is currently at work writing Black domesticity but make it Afropessimist, soul music ekphrases, Disney villain sonnets and spells to unweave the wolf.
Also by Christopher Leigh Silverberg:
Two Poems
If American History Had a Son
Whoopi Goldberg’s Tongue Refuses To Clock In For Work Bc Of How Many Times She Done Had To Tell America She In Danger, Girl
when they say why why tell them that it’s human-nature; or, it’s a good idea for poets to know the names of flowers and trees; however,
no I do not know the name of my tree
in English. I put my hand to my tree’s
bark, or any tree’s bark; and we say
what we say to each other in syllables
fathoms slower than empire. Sink into
ocean like telescoping stars; that is,
where we’ll go baby I don’t know maybe
back in geologic time. Time slows
at the bottom of the ocean where
the anglerfish speaks my tree’s
language. The sunflower star says
what the spider said before we
made of spider a barnyard snitch.
and long spur jellies talk in virus
talk of how we’re really one organism
where we’ll go baby I don’t know maybe
one machinery. no I ain’t finna learn my tree’s
government name. We will just hold hands
til slowly, slowly — ocean slowly, starlight
sprinting silence slowly, root-slow, tree-slow —
my tree begins to trust I have roots too, and so talks
in roots the sauntering syllables of his name.
where we’ll go baby I don’t know maybe
we should just let nature run the show...
I love taking long walks and resting my hands on trees. I have a fantasy that I'm talking with the tree, although I'm not quite mystical enough to believe that literally. Anyway, I was talking to a writer friend and really admired how they used specific names of trees and plants in their work, but for all I feel connected to trees, I don't actually know their official names.That thought inspired this poem; and Afaa Weaver's Bop form provided its shape.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
